


Cold Toes, Warm Hearts

by Ikaripoid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely minor Setleth in the background, I've been calling it my Nap AU but is it really just more of a Tinder AU?, Like truly ignorable, M/M, Never mind the Setleth is a little more prominent now, Tinder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ikaripoid/pseuds/Ikaripoid
Summary: Linhardt von Hevring was tired. Graduate research, a drafty apartment, and persistent insomnia makes for difficult sleep. Sometimes it helps to have a warm body to help you sleep.Sylvain Jose Gautier was horny. And kind of (maybe) a little bit (like a tiny bit) not straight. And sometimes sharing your bed helps keep the anxiety demons at bay.Modern AU, Grad student Linhardt x Rich Fuccboi Sylvain
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 42
Kudos: 112





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 06.30.2020

Green eyes lazily scanned the ceiling, tracing the webbed cracks. It had been two hours of sleeplessness thus far, nose numb against the cold air and toes curled against the chill of the fitted sheet. Pulling his knees towards his chest and tucking his arms in between, he sighed in equal frustration and exhaustion.

Linhardt von Hevring was tired.

Actually, tired was an understatement. His eyes stung like hell, his brain felt like fuzzy mush, and the bags under his eyes could’ve held groceries for a family of four. Holing oneself inside the lab for days at a time, as it turned out, was very tiring. Leaving it didn’t do very much for him either; his crappy city apartment had drafts coming in from permanently ajar windows, a sketchy heating system that threatened to light the place on fire, and was a good 30 degrees colder than his hometown, on average.

But by far, what made the cold so intolerable despite Linhardt’s mountain of blankets was the lack of Caspar. For as long as he could remember, Linhardt had always been cold. And for just as long, Caspar von Bergliez had always been warm, like a golden retriever but a hell of a lot dumber. Having a loud fidgety furnace for a best friend had always been warmer than anything he’d felt before, and no amount of electric blankets could heat the frigid emptiness in his heart when he’d left Caspar miles and miles away, at home. Not to be – ugh –  _ sentimental _ , but he kinda missed the rowdy idiot.

To address his issue of ever-frozen toes, Linhardt had tried so many things. Hot water bottles, extra blankets, space heaters, and more, but nothing had come close to the comforting warmth of another body. Desperate times called for desperate solutions, and his solution was desperate indeed. 

Tinder, to some, was a tool of the lonely and horny. To Linhardt, it was Postmates for nap buddies. 

Ideally.

Unfortunately, most were far too troublesome for his means.

First, there was the woman who threw her drink in his face and left the cafe in a huff. (Thankfully she was drinking an iced coffee, Linhardt recounted.) Then, there was the person who incessantly messaged him afterwards until he had blocked them. There was also the man who took any interaction as a guarantee to sex and had quite a few crass (and frankly, idiotic) words to hurl his way once Linhardt had clarified that no, he would not be sucking any dicks that night. A true academic through and through, Linhardt had tried and tested, hypothesized and prototyped, and all trials had led to failure. This wasn’t working. 

The missing variable? Sex.

The first few attempts led him closer to his desired results. He ended up staying the night with a success rate of about 85%. The sex tired him out, and the human warmth was nice. The unintended independent variables, however, were that Linhardt was a dead lay and noncommittal towards subsequent amorous ventures, steering 40% of these successes into undesirable consequences. Upon analysis of tested demographics, he found the ideal group, with a projected success rate of 95%. From then on, Linhardt only swiped right on horny finance fuccbois. 

The horny finance fuccboi, or HFF, was extremely noncommittal. They were so shallow that it hardly seemed like they’d sink any emotional energy into the affair, and so self-centered that Linhardt barely had to expend energy to say or do, well, anything. The HFF would prattle on about Beefer or Marco Brolo or whoever had chunked that day, Linhardt would halfheartedly nod and sip on his drink (paid for, of course, by the abundantly wealthy HFF), and later have a mediocre fuck until the HFF called it quits about fifteen minutes later. Only then would the HFF let him sleep in a ridiculously expensive bed with ridiculously expensive sheets, all adequately heated by his human water bottle of the night. It was nearly perfect, albeit temporary. 

Rolling over, Linhardt grabbed his phone off of his nightstand, a sad-looking sideways wine crate repurposed as hipster furniture, and checked the time. Only 8:30 p.m. Letting out a weak sigh, he opened Tinder and embarked on the search for his next HFF. 

A few left swipes later, there appeared before Linhardt von Hevring an acceptable candidate. Red hair, intentionally teased and tousled to seemingly carefree perfection, a build made from a swanky gym membership, and a general air of blithe indifference and slight stupidity that would work wonderfully for his purposes. The first photo of this man was him shirtless in the snow, abs out for all to see. A good indicator of naturally high body temperature. And idiocy. The bio, “6’1” here for a good time, not a long time” screamed fuccboi. All of this perfect terribleness wrapped up in Sylvain, 26. Linhardt swiped right.

About forty minutes later, a message from Sylvain, 26 pinged Linhardt’s phone, in all the glorious douchebaggery that he could ever have hoped for. 

“hey cutie ;-)” read the overwhelmingly underwhelming text.

“knighttime roast, 10pm” Linhardt typed back.

“wow straight 2 the point” Too direct? Whatever. “alright, see u soon bb”

_ Too easy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but just the prologue :)


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain, 26 meets Linhardt, 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, tinder... I don't miss it.

Deft fingers twirled the metal coffee stirrer as golden eyes scanned the nighttime foot traffic for forest green hair. He had spent all of ten minutes so far waiting for this blunt beauty, and not to delve into the deep dark lockbox of insecurity that was chained up in the deep dark depths of his heart, but he was kind of anxious. Taking a tentative sip of his iced americano, he languidly crossed his right ankle over his left thigh and leaned back in the cafe’s overstuffed chair. 

Sylvain Jose Gautier was horny.

And maybe a little not straight. Like a tiny bit. Like, it’s normal for a straight dude to jack it to porn with guys in it, but maybe it’s not quite so straight to jack it to dude on dude stuff. Or get off to the memory of your childhood guy friend holding a practice épeé to your throat (sorry Felix). Once or twice can be chalked up to curiosity, but reaching an uncountable amount of times over the span of years would make even the most loudly heterosexual man question himself.

Which was what the loudly “heterosexual” Sylvain did. He questioned it, and that was a slippery slope. What followed was a lot of denial, a questionable series of female paramours to prove… something, hours of internal arguments with himself, and a concerning amount of confused wanking. At the end of all this Sylvain, the king of self-destructive tendencies, decided to throw caution (among other things) into the wind and just go for it, making a life-changing step into the unknown.

He changed his Tinder preference to “Everyone”.

Sylvain swiped through the masses, pausing now and then to see more pictures or to read a bio, but the knot of anxiety that had rooted itself into the pit of his stomach always made him swipe left.  _ What about this guy? _ He would ask himself.  _ Too open. Next.  _ The anxiety would reply.  _ How about them? _ He would ask again.  _ Too happy it’s scary.  _ And round and round Sylvain and his brain would go, until Sylvain’s world stopped.

His face was charmingly aloof, long eyelashes accentuating slightly droopy emerald eyes. With long hair cascading down his shoulders, half tied into a careless bun, this man took Sylvain’s breath away as he dared not breathe, should it somehow scare the profile away. It was a candid photo of the enchanting green-eyed man sitting on a lab stool, drowsily staring off to the left as the evening sunset cast an orange glow on his flawless skin. 

Linhardt, 23. “Nap with me” read his bio, simple and short.

_ He’s so pretty, what the fuck. _ Sylvain set his phone down on the granite countertop to rub at his eyes with the heels of both palms.  _ He’s so pretty, it’s scary. _ The anxiety demon echoed back.  _ Left, left, left. _ Sylvain stared at the stainless-steel refrigerator door across from him as the cogs of his mind turned.  _ But what if this was his once-in-a-lifetime chance? _

_ Well, he probably didn’t swipe right on me anyways.  _ Taking a deep breath, Sylvain swiped right.

“It’s a Match!” immediately bubbled up at him, nearly knocking him off the kitchen stool he was perched on.  _ Crap, crap, crap! _

“Now what,” Sylvain grumbled to himself. 

Harnessing all of his fuccboi experience and taking a deep breath, he sent a message.

...Which brought him to the cafe that night, idly biting the inside of his lip as his brain spiralled waiting for Linhardt, 23. 

_What if he isn’t like his picture? What if I got the place wrong? Is there anything on my face? What if he just called me out to make fun of me? What if-_ Sylvain gulped, _what if he wants a relationship?_ _I really can’t handle a rela-_

“Sylvain?” A smooth voice halted the stream of thoughts and directed his gaze upwards, towards long eyelashes and a straightforward gaze.

“Y-yeah, that’s me.” Sylvain stuttered out.

“Linhardt.” He didn’t say anything else, nor extend a hand to shake. Linhardt simply plopped himself into the overstuffed chair across from Sylvain, and took a sip of his herbal tea. Even in the low light of the late-night coffee shop, he was a sight for sore eyes in wide-legged black pants and a beige knit v-neck, silky hair tied in the same half-bun as his profile. Mentally shaking himself free of his nerves, Sylvain leaned forward, resting an elbow on his thigh and assuming a practiced lazy smirk. 

“So what’s a beauty like yourself doing in a place like this at this time of night?” He drawled, catching green eyes with amber. Linhardt sipped from his mug again, making no move to answer but not breaking eye contact. Trying to recover from this silent rejection, Sylvain continued, “I’ve never heard of this place, never knew there was a coffee house open so late.” 

“I work late, and they have good tea.” Linhardt swirled his mug as he carefully regarded the man in front of him. Sylvain felt those piercing eyes scan him from head to toe, before lazily coming back up to meet his own. 

“Hm, and what do you do that keeps you up so late?” Sylvain leaned away, just a bit, feeling as if Linhardt’s eyes might uncover secrets if he stayed too close. 

“Research.” He replied, sounding a bit disinterested. “What about you?”

“Eh, finance.” Sylvain could have sworn he heard a small huff of a laugh from his companion – “Nothing interesting, really. A lot of boring management stuff.” 

He smiled, his eyes not quite catching the friendliness of his mouth. It was a bit of an understatement. He, Sylvain Jose Gautier of Gautier Financial, was not a simple finance man. When his abusive garbage older brother had been disowned, Sylvain became the sole heir to the expansive financial empire. He didn’t fault Linhardt for not knowing – after all, who the hell knew heirs to banks, and it’s not as if he’d given out his last name – in fact, it was a bit refreshing to be thought of as just a corporate stooge instead of a walking ticket to trophy wifedom. 

“But enough about me, where do you work?” Sylvain’s deflection seemed to have caught Linhardt a bit off guard, by the way the man’s eyes widened a bit.

“Garreg Mach University. I’m a graduate researcher.” Linhardt sat up a bit straighter, crossing thin ankles and setting his tea down on the low table between the two of them.

“GMU, huh? I got my MBA from there.” This only earned a hum of acknowledgement from Linhardt, “so what are you studying?”

“The link between genetics and aggression.” Linhardt looked for Sylvain’s response, as if to try to gauge the complexity of words he should use before continuing. “I hypothesize that there are specific genes that dictate aggression in mammals.”

“Huh, interesting.” Sylvain leaned back in his chair.  _ Saint Seiros, this guy is pretty  _ and _ smart. _ “So this is your master's thesis?” 

“Doctoral.” Linhardt truly did not mince words.

“And you’re in the biology department, right?” Sylvain got a slight nod in return. “You know Seteth? Seteth… Seteth-”

“Eisner.” Linhardt finished. Seeing Sylvain’s puzzled look, he offered up a short explanation, “he got married last year. Took his wife’s name.”

“So the ‘ol stick in the mud got a wife,” Sylvain mused. “Good for him. Is he still a stubborn grouch?”

“Quite.” Linhardt let out a small laugh, soft and breathy. Sylvain’s heart skipped a beat. (And his dick got a little hard.)  _ Good job, Sylvain. Still got it. _

Feeling emboldened by Linhardt’s amusement, Sylvain mustered his sleaziest grin and leaned forward, reaching out a hand in a come-hither motion.

“It’s getting late, why don’t we head out?” 

Sylvain blinked. Once. Twice. Linhardt sat before him, waiting for an answer to his invitation with expectant eyes. Never before had Sylvain been beaten to the punch like this. Was this what dating men was like? 

“S-sure. My place?” He managed to eke out.

“Sounds lovely.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, let's play "spot the Setleth"
> 
> Also, I know nothing about biology, if anyone has input on whatever field of research might be closest to crestology please hmu!!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get... heated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit content. Rating changed accordingly.

Linhardt had barely stepped foot into Sylvain’s swanky-looking penthouse apartment when he was  _ slammed _ against the door, hungry lips devouring his own.

_ Ah, I guess it’s moving along fast today. Just as well.  _ He thought as Sylvain trailed his way down Linhardt’s neck, gently biting as he went.  _ I wonder what thread count his sheets have.  _

Linhardt reminded himself to issue a moan as Sylvain grasped his waist tightly, grinding their hips together. 

“That good, baby?” Sylvain spoke softly against Linhardt’s neck, voice husky with desire. 

_ So tired. So very tired.  _

“Mhm.”  _ This apartment is nice. He probably has a real feather duvet, something really warm…  _ He could feel his eyelids growing heavy just at the thought of such luxurious bedding.

Sylvain moved his way up to nip at Linhardt’s ear while his hands found their way under his sweater. Linhardt’s eyes snapped back open, his body made acutely aware of how cold the metal door was against his back with his sweater bunched up above his chest.  _ Ugh. _ Bringing his hands up to join behind Sylvain’s neck, Linhardt wrested his throat free for a moment. His redheaded hot water bottle stopped his advances for a moment, slight confusion dusting his features. 

“Why don’t we take this to bed?” Linhardt purred and hiked a leg around Sylvain’s hips, imagining a luxurious mattress that might await him. His body craved the caress of a medium-firm spring mattress and the gentle loving of silky, warm sheets. 

“Forward, I like that.” Sylvain hoisted Linhardt up in his arms and briskly made his way down the hall of the spacious apartment, lightly kicking open the door at the end and flicking on a dimmer. He gently tossed Linhardt onto the bed, caging him in with strong arms.

And what bliss it was. It was more or less what Linhardt had hoped for – a bed far too large for one person dressed in luxuriant sheets and a plush duvet. Beneath his head was a delightfully fluffy pillow that smelled of laundry detergent and bergamot. And the finishing touch, a body above him absolutely  _ radiating _ heat. It was all so lovely he could have fallen asleep then and there. Alas, he had something – er, someone – to attend to.

Sylvain, meanwhile, dove back into kissing along Linhardt’s jaw. Hands wandered south to tug down the elastic of his pants, deftly sliding them off Linhardt’s legs to toss them on the floor. Leaving behind a trail of kisses and bites as he went, Sylvain bit down on the band of Linhardt’s underwear, tugging it down to let his cock free. Whether he shivered from the sudden airiness down south or Sylvain’s breath between his legs, Linhardt didn’t know. He nudged the hem of the taller man’s shirt with a foot, giving Sylvain a look through heavily lidded eyes, and lightly grasped the back of his head, tugging him up. Within a matter of seconds, Sylvain’s shirt was discarded, and his mouth once again ravaged Linhardt’s as slender hands pulled their bodies together.

And it was  _ glorious _ . Sylvain was just as he had expected and more. With their bodies pressed flush together, Linhardt could feel the heat permeating his skin and relaxing every muscle in his tense, worn-out husk he called a body. The weight of days without resting pulled his eyes shut as he let himself indulge in the feeling. He let loose a satisfied hum.

About thirty seconds later – or what Linhardt  _ hoped  _ was only thirty seconds – he jolted himself awake. Sylvain still occupied himself above, once again mouthing at his jawline. Wanting to get a move on things so he could get more than a micro-nap, Linhardt boldly grasped the redheaded man’s crotch, palming his hardening member.

Sylvain groaned at the sudden move, but not a moment later a dangerous look gleamed across his face and he pulled a bottle from the sleek, modern nightstand at his bedside. Generously coating his fingers in lube, he took to loosening Linhardt’s rear. Linhardt winced at entry, but the uncomfortable tightness soon gave way as Sylvain’s digits skillfully worked him open. 

Linhardt wasn’t a loose person persay, by the meaning of the phrase. He  _ had _ taken a bit of a “run around the block” in search of a good heat bag, however, so it didn’t take much for Sylvain (who probably also had his fair share of “running”, by the way he conducted himself in bed) to fit three fingers knuckle-deep. 

Sylvain crooked his fingers and Linhardt whined, a bit of a complaint that he wasn’t yet asleep, and a bit from the way it made sparks pop in his head. The green-haired man wasn’t sure when his partner had managed to slip on a condom, but he craned his neck and squinted through tired lids to see Sylvain slicking his covered length with another layer of lube.  _ Finally. _ Linhardt let his head flop back on the pillow, while Sylvain lined himself up.

And slowly pushed in. 

Sylvain’s cock practically glided into Linhardt despite its generous size. Sylvain tugged Linhardt’s sweater over his head, and once again returned to align himself with Linhardt’s now bare chest. The comfort that radiated from bare skin to bare skin was intoxicatingly warm.  _ Lovely. _ As Sylvain slowly, almost lazily, thrust himself inside, Linhardt felt his body grow heavy against the mattress, warm and jelly-limbed.

Most of his past conquests weren’t nearly as comfortingly warm and soft as the pecs pushed up against his own nearly concave chest. The way Sylvain’s muscled arms wrapped around him and the weight of his body made Linhardt feel… Secure. Safe. Sleepy… He stifled a yawn as the older man continued fucking him slowly.

Linhardt could barely register Sylvain gently nosing into his shoulder as he lost the battle and let himself drift to sleep.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry Sylvain.
> 
> Twitter: @ikaripoid


	4. Chapter 3

Still a little irritated, Sylvain brooded in an armchair opposite the bed, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he waited for the gorgeous,  _ rude _ creature in his bed to wake up. The little bastard really had the gall to fall asleep impaled on his little man, leaving Sylvain unfulfilled and insulted. Like the absolute gentleman he was, he had pulled out and toweled the man off before tucking him in, and like the horny dirtbag he was, he had jacked off in the toilet before bed to the image of slender hips and the lingering scent of angelica tea. 

For an hour after Linhardt had left Sylvain’s ego battered and bruised, the man had mulled over every possible wrongdoing he could have committed over the night. He had managed to charm dozens of women over the years, how could he possibly fail  _ now _ ? Unable to reach a conclusion, he had climbed into bed beside the offending muss of veridian hair and fallen into a strangely restful sleep despite how scrambled his thoughts seemed to be. 

When Sylvain had awoken that morning, he was a bit bothered (in different senses of the word) to find his nose buried in long tresses and Linhardt’s limbs splayed over him like a starfish suctioned to a rock. He had pried himself free, washed up (and…  _ rid  _ himself of some morning wood), made himself a cup of coffee, and now sat with hands folded, waiting to confront the softly snoring lump. Surely, he was annoyed towards Linhardt, but not enough to kick him out of bed (as tempting as that option had been). Sylvain was a petty man, he knew that, but maybe not that petty… At least for another hour or so,  _ then  _ he’d reconsider his policy on pettiness. 

Finally Linhardt stirred, slowly sitting up to rub at sleepy eyes with the back of his hand. 

“Good morning,” Sylvain’s bitter tone betrayed the nature of the greeting. 

“Ah, yeah.” Linhardt returned, blearily blinking at the other man. “Morning.”

Even as irked as he was, Sylvain had to admit that Linhardt was still attractive. Even more so maybe, with lightly mussed hair catching the late morning sunlight and bite marks blushing pink against pale skin. He was still entirely naked, save for Sylvain’s sheets wrapped loosely around him, and Sylvain could have almost claimed to be in the presence of the Goddess herself. But that was beside the point. He mentally shook the ethereal lenses from his eyes and addressed the beautiful, albeit assholish, creature. 

“What. The. Hell.” Sylvain spoke through gritted teeth. 

“... What?” Linhardt seemed genuinely confused but not really shaken by the other man’s demeanor.

“You really just fell asleep in the middle, didn’t you.” 

“Oh, yeah.” 

“Why.” Sylvain stated more than asked, fixing Linhardt with serious eyes. “What could I have  _ possibly _ done to make you so bored during sex that you’d actually fall asleep.”

“It’s not anything you did, or didn’t do,” Linhardt deadpanned. “I was sleepy. So I slept.”

“Huh?” The response rendered Sylvain’s brain blank. What could he possibly say to that? 

“I didn’t sleep for three days,” Linhardt continued, “and you were warm, so I felt comfortable and fell asleep. It’s really quite simple.”

“And why would you go on a date if you’re so tired?” Sylvain countered. “Why wouldn’t you just, I dunno,  _ sleep. _ ”

“Insomnia.” 

Sylvain’s eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed. Before he could open his mouth, Linhardt spoke again.

“When I can’t sleep I look for human warmth. It’s a… sleeping aid of sorts. You seemed like someone who would be comfortably warm, so I swiped right.” 

Dumbfounded, Sylvain said nothing, mouth slightly agape but not a sound coming from it. Linhardt scooted himself out of the bed and gathered his discarded clothes from the ground. He started walking towards the bedroom door, but not without first turning for a last word.

“And I was right, you were quite lovely.” Linhardt said with a soft smile that stabbed Sylvain in the heart. “Shame it seems this will be the last we ever see of each other.”

“Wait-” Sylvain shot up from his seat to grasp Linhardt’s thin wrist. “What if… What if it wasn’t? I mean, what if we-”  _ Sylvain Jose Gautier, what the hell are you saying?  _ “What if we, y’know, just… Slept together?”

“I wouldn’t have thought you would want a repeat of last night, given how upset you were this morning.” 

“No, I mean like… Literally just sleeping.” Sylvain’s mouth felt dry as he tried to come up with some kind of reasoning. “It’s kind of nice. Less lonely.”

Sylvain felt like his heart nearly stopped for the few moments Linhardt spent to consider it. 

“Alright.” He finally answered, and Sylvain could let himself breathe again. “That sounds reasonable.” 

Was it, though?

“Then I guess… Call me?” Realizing he was still holding onto the other man, Sylvain let go and awkwardly scratched the back of his head. 

“I still need to get dressed.” Linhardt gestured to the pile of clothing in his arms. “And I don’t have your number.” Sylvain flushed the same color as his hair, feeling really  _ really _ foolish. He played the part of a vapid manwhore a lot as part of his facade, but no one had ever made him feel as truly brainless as Linhardt had in the last ten hours. 

“Right.” Sylvain cleared his throat, once again trying to regain himself. “You go get dressed and I’ll uh… Write my number down.”

Linhardt hummed affirmatively, making his way down the hall to the bathroom, and Sylvain definitely did not check out his bare ass as he exited the room. Definitely didn’t see the way Linhardt’s hips swayed ever so slightly with every step he took, and absolutely did not think about how nice it was to grab the compact cheeks in his hands.

Definitely didn’t.

But his new nap buddy had a very pretty butt. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friend Tnt for beta-ing!! (Wow lookit me I'm so fancy I have a beta reader now)
> 
> Wanna talk Sylvhardt? Wanna see Sylvhardt doodles? My Twitter: @ikaripoid


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDITED 07.19.2020: Changed some wording, added some details about Byleth.

Since that day, Linhardt had been getting the best sleep of his life. He felt less groggy and itchy-brained, and was less inclined to nod off on a lab stool with a pipette in hand. And he didn’t have to scout out new warm bodies either – Sylvain was working out fantastically. He wouldn’t call their relationship friends with benefits, really. They weren’t quite friends, and they didn’t have “benefits”. Instead, it’d be more apt to call them acquaintances with a single perk, although Linhardt still didn’t quite understand what Sylvain was getting out of this arrangement. Regardless, it benefitted Linhardt and that’s what mattered. 

It started with once a week, with Linhardt crashing at Sylvain’s on a Saturday to pay back his accrued sleep debt of the week. Then it became twice a week, when Sylvain started picking up the exhausted scientist from the lab on Fridays, after a mildly unfortunate incident that involved Linhardt’s inability to read bus signs when severely sleep-deprived. Sylvain, upon finding out, had driven two towns over to bring the poor befuddled scholar back home, and had made him promise  _ never _ to take a bus without clear cognition ever again, because this time it turned out okay but  _ you’d never know _ . Linhardt had rolled his eyes but complied, the effort to disagree far too much for his taste.

Before long, Sylvain’s number had made its way to speed dial, and its owner had become something of a… Close acquaintance of Linhardt. Since leaving Caspar and his hometown behind, he could hardly name anyone he considered close. Given his blunt nature and personal disinterest in most things except for his work, Linhardt rarely found himself associating with others. He strongly disliked expending the effort to make idle chatter or exchange pointless pleasantries with his peers. Even those he could discuss work with, were just that. Coworkers. Nothing more and nothing less. (Save for his P.I., who was something of an enigma and seemed to, in her own odd and stony way, care for Linhardt.)

Sylvain, on the other hand, was oddly… Comfortable. Surely, Linhardt found his exterior to be shallow and unnecessarily crude, at times. But past that, he was… Something. Intelligent. Considerate. Contemplative.

Effortlessly charming. 

Not in the way he winked at Linhardt to punctuate a lewd remark, nor the way he styled his hair or dressed himself in slim-fitting suits, no. Rather, how he gently fluffed the pillows before they slept, or how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and wished Linhardt a good night. Or how his arms held Linhardt close at night, as if he were a child afraid to be left alone. It seemed a waste, Linhardt thought, to hide such natural attractiveness beneath an artificial persona. But it was hardly his business to comment on it. 

What truly mattered was that Sylvain was a very good body pillow. 

\-----

It was 3 p.m. on a Thursday not unlike others, and Linhardt was processing data on the bulky, outdated lab computer. The sight was so odd it caused an undergraduate walk into an eyewash station and another researcher to drop a petri dish, both staring in slack-jawed surprise. Linhardt von Hevring was working,  _ wide-awake _ , on a Thursday afternoon. All eyes in the lab were on him, watching,  _ waiting _ , for him to either fall asleep or to sprout wings and simply fly off. 

The first person to break the stony silence (and Linhardt’s concentration) was none other than the mint-haired, stone-faced enigma herself, Dr. Byleth Eisner. Cautiously approaching from behind, she laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. Even through his lab coat he could feel the cold, hard metal of her wedding ring pressing into his shoulder. The recently-married professor had vanished for a bit a little over a year ago, and when she had returned it was with this ring, which no one in this lab of cowards dared to ask her about for over a month. That is, until Linhardt had broken the ice and asked. It had been even longer for people to figure out who she was married to, however, because Linhardt was not one to fish for personal details. 

“Ah, Professor,” Linhardt looked up at her with eyes shining with excitement. “It may be a bit premature to say, but I believe this preliminary data shows a correlation between the gene expression and behavioral abnormalities. If you look here, the numbers suggest an upward trend as the independent gene is stimulated, and I haven’t run the statistical analysis yet, but I estimate a p-value between-”

“Linhardt.” The professor spoke little, but tilted her head and furrowed her eyebrows ever so slightly in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I would say I’m quite alright. Excited, perhaps.” He let go of the archaic computer mouse to fold his hands in his lab and swivel in his chair to face Byleth. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re not…” Byleth paused. Everyone in the room held their breath in anticipation. “Napping.”

“Ah, I suppose not.” Even Linhardt himself seemed surprised at the realization. “I guess I’ve been getting fair sleep as of late.”

The rest of the lab breathed a collective sigh of relief and returned to their tasks. Byleth, however, remained. Without uttering a word, she took Linhardt’s face in her cold, sterile hands and examined him. Her thumbs brushed under his eyes and her fingers pinched his cheeks as she looked him over with an inscrutable expression. Finding nothing of note but smoother skin and lighter eye bags, she let him go. 

“Good.” Was all that Dr. Eisner said, a ghost of a smile dusting her lips. Linhardt returned the expression(?) with one of his own, and Byleth left to go attend to some newly recruited undergraduates, lest they break another petri dish or contaminate a sample. 

Linhardt, however, stopped to think. He couldn’t say for sure, since he didn’t have any data to compare with, but in a qualitative sense it seemed that he was sleeping not only more, but better. Sylvain was the best heater he’d had… Ever. He felt it, and everyone around him noticed as well. His body felt lighter, his mood was better, and he had Sylvain to thank for it. It had only been two months, but it just felt… Good.

Linhardt happily returned to his work, eagerly anticipating the next day with thoughts of a soft mattress and a certain warm redhead.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the entire course of this fic because I'm playing blue lions and I went through Sylvain's B-support again. I hate him so much :))))) (I love that bastard)
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all of the comments!! They're giving me life to keep writing these two trainwrecks :,)
> 
> For Sylvain hateposting and Linhardt doodling: @ikaripoid on Twitter!  
> For hormy hours and Sylvain hateposting (and occasional ramblings about this AU): @lovchrom on Twitter! (18+ only)


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: mention of panic attack, mention of strangling, slightly more prominent Setleth

Sylvain walked into the campus building behind a group of students, making his way toward the genetics and biology lab. He peeked through the door, left ajar, spotting a familiar white hair ribbon. 

“Hey.” He said softly, catching Linhardt’s attention. 

“Oh, you’re early.” The man made no motion to walk over, but looked Sylvain’s way. “I have to finish a few things, so if you could wait in the hall for a bit… There’s some hazardous substances in here.” Linhardt gestured to a tall, gaunt looking man with dark hair and an all-black ensemble to match, hunched over something Sylvain didn’t want to ask about. The eyebrowless man looked up to grimace at Linhardt, before returning to his dubious task.

“Gotcha.” Sylvain said, shooting finger guns and retreating back into the hall where the black lab coat-clad boogeyman couldn’t see him. He settled himself against a wall, pulling out his phone to drop some likes on the ‘gram. Ingrid and her girlfriend at the beach,  _ double tap _ . Ashe at the renaissance faire,  _ double tap _ . A blurry shot of the top of Dimitri’s head? Eh,  _ double tap _ . 

“Ah, it’s you.” Sylvain looked up, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. Before him stood a familiar face. He broke out into a cheeky grin.

“Hey, Seteth! Long time no see.” Sylvain pulled himself away from the wall, addressing the mildly disconcerted man holding a stack of paperwork in his arms. 

“Indeed.” Seteth replied curtly. “I trust you’ve been well?”

“Yeah, not bad.” Sylvain shrugged nonchalantly. “How about you?”

“I’ve been alright.” The man replied, shifting the papers to his other hand. “Thankfully I haven’t run into a student quite so troublesome as you were as of late.”

“C’mon, I wasn’t that bad. Definitely not bad enough to warrant that kick.” 

“That,” Seteth cleared his throat. “Was a different matter entirely.” 

“Sure, sure.” Sylvain could almost feel the pain in his rib cage again as he recalled Seteth’s rather spectacular roundhouse kick. He had found Seteth’s four year-old daughter in tears one day in the middle of campus, about four years ago. Ever the soft-hearted “older brother” of his childhood friend group, Sylvain had wiped away the little princess’s tears with his sleeve and promised to help her find her papa. Just as little Flayn had latched onto Sylvain’s sweater with a tiny hand, an earth-shattering yell was heard from across the quad, and Sylvain was met with a swift kick to the ribs.

“Don’t you  _ DARE _ lay a hand on my child you  _ DEGENERATE ANIMAL _ .” Was the last thing he had heard before he blacked out. Over the few years following, Sylvain had run into Seteth a few more times over some  _ disciplinary _ issues here and there. It wasn’t the best way to get to know a faculty member, and Seteth could probably agree to that.

Just as Sylvain was about to launch another guilt missile at the poor bearded man, the lab door swung open. A woman with some of the biggest tits Sylvain had seen emerged from behind it. Before he could reflexively hit on her, she lifted herself on her toes to plant a small kiss on Seteth’s cheek. Sylvain’s jaw clicked shut. Then opened again to release another barrage of mortification onto Seteth.

“Oh yeah, I heard you got married, congrats! What a beauty she is, too.” Sylvain gave the woman one of his trademark winks as Seteth paled. “Pleasure to meet ya.”

She said nothing, instead pointing at Sylvain and looking at Seteth, cocking her head slightly. Seteth, who looked a bit like he wanted to dig a hole and bury himself (or Sylvain) in it, was obliged to answer.

  
  


“Sylvain is a former student here.” He explained. “Sylvain, this is my wife, Byleth.” 

“Charmed.” Sylvain extended a hand towards Byleth, who took a half-second to look at it before fixing her gaze on his face. He could almost feel her eyes boring holes into his skull as she studied him with an unflinching expression. As the moments passed, Sylvain could feel his palms growing sweatier and Seteth’s growing helplessness to intervene in the situation.

Finally, the lab door swung open once again and Linhardt – now lab coat-free with a bag slung over his shoulder – emerged an angel, saving Sylvain from this living purgatory. 

“Ah, Professor. Seteth.” Linhardt nodded to both of them in greeting, before turning to Sylvain. “Alright, I’m ready to leave.”

With the same fish-eyed expression as before (though Sylvain could’ve sworn it was a bit softer) Byleth regarded Linhardt, reaching up to ruffle his hair a bit.

“Eat. And sleep.” Was all that she had to say. Linhardt smiled a little, and Sylvain’s heart skipped a beat.

“I will.” He assured, as he led Sylvain out of the building. Sylvain could still feel Byleth’s stone-cold gaze from behind until the heavy wooden doors shut behind him.

Sylvain unlocked the door to his black Lexus (the  _ Pussysmasher _ , as he liked to call it, to the dismay of pretty much every friend he had), letting Linhardt plop himself into the passenger seat. He himself slid into the driver’s seat, turning on the ignition. Smoothly changing his Spotify station from thumping club asshole to soft cafe jazz, he turned the volume down to a comfortable background hum.

“You can go ahead and nap for a little if you want.” He said to Linhardt, who immediately did, head drooping against the window.

Linhardt shivered a bit in the chill of the car and Sylvain’s hands moved quickly to turn down the air conditioning. The man relaxed back into rest as soft, slow breathing resumed. As he drove, Sylvain couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to when he’d woken up in the middle of the night some time ago, a nightmare of his past haunting him and shaking him from rest. So many times he had grappled with the memory of scarred hands gripping his throat and cursing him for his existence, squeezing the air from his lungs as he struggled to make amends with his own bloodline. So many times he had cried in the darkness, alone, fighting panic until daybreak. But now, when anxious demons dragged him from sleep, Linhardt’s level breaths lulled him back, secure and grounding.

Pulling to a stop at an intersection, Sylvain let himself lightly push back long locks from where they tickled at Linhardt’s nose. He chuckled a bit when the action made the younger man’s nose wrinkle a bit, before melting away. It was endearing to Sylvain, how someone so clinical and detached as Linhardt had a bit of a cute, childish side to him. From the way he whined when he was dragged from bed to the way he frowned at Sylvain’s improper jokes, all of it was captivating. 

Sylvain drove through the city against the dimming evening light. It was a serene and calming picture, the orange-streaked sunset bathing the sleeping beauty in a celestial glow, a light piano melody weaving itself into the experience. The fifteen-minute drive between the university and his apartment building seemed too short, too fleeting.

But just as all good things must come to an end, Sylvain pulled into the underground parking garage and lightly jostled the sleeping man. When he was met with a groggy “nooo”, he decided to take matters into his own hands and hefted Linhardt over his shoulder, slamming the car door closed with his foot and making his way into the building.

Following a somewhat awkward interaction with one of his neighbors in the elevator (“ _ he fell asleep in the car, _ ” he had whispered to the concerned elderly woman), he managed to get back into his apartment, where he tossed his keys on the kitchen island and unceremoniously dropped Linhardt’s bag on the floor. In perfect timing, Linhardt’s stomach gurgled much louder than Sylvain had ever heard the man himself speak.

“When was the last time you ate?” Sylvain asked, eyeing Linhardt warily as he set him down on the plush sofa. 

“Hm…” Linhardt yawned, slowly counting off numbers on his fingers as he thought. “Wait, no…”

“If you have to think that much, it’s been too long.” Sylvain said with an incredulous look. “Do you have anything you don’t eat?”

“Not particularly.” Linhardt nestled into the knitted blanket resting on the arm of the couch like an oversized cat.

“Thai food it is.” Sylvain plopped down next to Linhardt as he tapped at his phone. “It’ll get here in an hour.”

Linhardt acknowledged it with a small noise, curling against Sylvain and dozing off once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A doodle I made for this fic: [ here ](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid/status/1284915350044241920?s=21)
> 
> I love making my grumpy seaweed man suffer. When his eyebrows get all scrunchy it's so cute.
> 
> Thank you to my friend Tnt for beta-ing this chapter and the previous one! (Edits have been made to chapter 4)
> 
> Doodles and stuff: [@ikaripoid](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid)  
> Seteth loveposting and sylvhardt hormyposting: [ @lovchrom ](https://twitter.com/lovchrom)


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for panic attack. If you wish to skip it, don't read the fourth segment (after the third line break).

“You really should eat more.” Sylvain frowned at Linhardt, who had abandoned his food in favor of resting his head against Sylvain’s shoulder as the two of them sat in front of the TV, Thai food spread out on the glass coffee table before them. 

“I did eat, I’m not hungry anymore.” Linhardt pouted a little bit, the warmth from Sylvain’s shoulder leaving him as the man shook himself free. 

“You barely touched it.” Sylvain retorted. “And to think, I went through all this effort for nothing.” He placed a hand on his heart, feigning hurt. Linhardt rolled his eyes, picking up his plate again and nibbling on the fried tofu and basil.

“There we go.” Looking satisfied with himself, Sylvain popped another bite of food into his mouth. Chewed… And swallowed. And then coughed, ears turning red as he wheezed, sucking in air through his teeth. 

“Thai chili?” Linhardt stifled a laugh at his companion’s pain, watching as Sylvain ran into his kitchen to pour himself a  _ large _ glass of milk. 

“Y-yeah.” Sylvain gasped out in between chugging the milk and taking strained breaths. 

“You know that air makes it worse, right?” Taking another bite of his own food, Linhardt nearly snorted as Sylvain’s mouth clamped shut and tears started forming at the edges of his eyes. “Are you alright?”

Sylvain, mouth still closed, nodded hesitantly, eyebrows scrunched in pain. After a good ten minutes and another glass of milk, it seems that the worst had passed and the man, now a good deal sweatier and redder, stowed Linhardt’s leftovers in his fridge and settled himself back onto the couch. As Linhardt swaddled himself in the oversized throw blanket that had made its new residence from Linhardt’s bed to Sylvain’s sofa, Sylvain flipped on the TV.

“What is this?” The blanketed man asked, leaning on Sylvain’s side. 

“Just some reality show,” he explained, while the unreasonably attractive people on the television squabbled with one another. “They just put a bunch of people in a beach house and film ‘em for like a month.”

“Huh. Sounds truly pointless.” Linhardt quipped, though his eyes didn’t leave the dramatic situation between two blondes unfolding in the tropical getaway.

“Yeah, it is.” Sylvain agreed, resting his socked feet on the table. “Reminds me of the brief stint I had on one of these when I was 20.”

Linhardt snorted. “I can see it.”

They both sat in relative silence after that. Sylvain alternating between watching the show and scrolling through his Insta feed and Linhardt paying a surprising amount of attention for something he considered to be the dregs of television programming.

“Oh damn, Severa’s totally losing her shit.” Sylvain pointed at the tv, where a redhead with pigtails flipped a table, screaming at another one of the beach dwellers. 

“It’s only because Inigo started it.” Linhardt commented, painting Sylvain’s face in surprise. “I don’t see why he would say such a thing, but I suppose one would never know.”

“Huh. Guess you’re right.” Sylvain mused, shifting to drape an arm around the sofa burrito. Linhardt leaned into the warmth, cozying himself and resting his head on Sylvain’s chest. The babble from the television melted into the background as he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. 

\---

The months following passed much the same, as Linhardt found himself at Sylvain’s apartment for more than just sleeping. At Sylvain’s insistence, they began sharing meals regularly with each other. More of Linhardt’s belongings had found a new place in Sylvain’s home, and with less of a need to return to his own place, Linhardt spent nearly all weekends at Sylvain’s. From Friday evenings to Sunday afternoons, he found himself more likely than not at this fancy modern penthouse.

As Linhardt became familiar with the luxury apartment, he became quite well acquainted with the owner as well. He learned more about Sylvain, bits of information here and there from sleepy pre-bedtime chatter and idle conversations. Small things, from recently read books to Sylvain’s close-knit circle of childhood friends, to his preference in desserts (Linhardt had found that they both enjoyed sweet buns and thus bought some extra when he stopped by the bakery near campus for some mid-afternoon snacks one Friday). 

However, there were some things Sylvain seemed distant about, either deflecting the topic entirely or giving shallow, vague answers. Things like his family or work, Linhardt still knew very little about. The man worked in some kind of finance in some kind of a management position, and that was the most he could scrape together. Linhardt assumed that Sylvain had a family, by the way he would scowl and shut off his phone when it buzzed as “Father” flashed across the screen. It soon occurred to Linhardt that he didn’t even know Sylvain’s full name. Odd, Linhardt thought, for someone he had shared a bed with for nearly half a year, but he chalked it up to his own disinterested disposition. 

It bothered him, though. The curiosity ate at Linhardt’s brain, stirring him to satisfy that itch by any means possible. It was a familiar itch, something he rarely denied, and this was much the same. Thus, he snooped.

When Sylvain excused himself to another room to take a phone call, the opportunity presented itself on a silver platter to Linhardt’s inquisitive nature. Quickly finding Sylvain’s wallet in the shallow bowl near the door, he opened it up to immediately reveal a driver’s license in the clear pocket. “GAUTIER, SYLVAIN JOSE” it said in bold letters, next to an annoyingly decent license photo. Making quick note of it for later, Linhardt gently set it back and returned to his regular perch on the sofa. 

“Sorry about that.” Sylvain re-entered the room, sitting on the couch next to Linhardt. “Ready to watch?”

“No.” Linhardt replied flatly as Sylvain switched the TV on with the remote. “But does it matter what I say anyways?”

“Not at all.” Sylvain returned immediately. “But it’s the season finale, you can’t  _ not _ watch it.” 

“I  _ can _ not watch it.” 

“But you will anyways.” Sylvain grinned smugly. Linhardt let out a resigned sigh and curled into him, settling in to watch an hour of hot people with hot people beach problems.

\--- 

“Wow.” Sylvain breathed out as the end credits rolled.

“That was awful.” Linhardt mumbled from his place on Sylvain’s lap, head resting on the warm, broad expanse of chest. 

“You still watched all of it though.” Sylvain pointed out. “Gotta say though, I didn’t expect it to end that way.” 

“Yeah, I’m shocked, really.” Linhardt said. “It’s like if you’re fishing and you think you’ve got a big one, but then you reel it in… And it’s Seteth.”

Sylvain threw his head back in a full-bodied laugh.

“Where did that come from?” 

“I don’t know.” Linhardt shrugged. “Like that finale, it came out of nowhere” 

This prompted another fit of laughter from Sylvain, Linhardt chuckling a bit along with him. As Sylvain came down from it, they both sat in peaceful silence, the background hum of city nightlife like white noise through the double-paned glass windows. Feeling the rise and fall of Sylvain’s chest with every breath, Linhardt felt himself lulled by the rhythm and nestled himself closer to hear the heart beating beneath. His eyes grew heavy, the thrum of Sylvain’s heart quieting his mind.

“Wanna head to bed?” Sylvain asked, breaking the silence. Linhardt nodded sleepily, eyes drooping nearly shut. Without another word, he was gently lifted and carried down the hall to the bed, barely conscious enough to nestle himself deep into the covers. Sylvain climbed in next to him, and a warm arm snaked around Linhardt’s waist. It was comfy. It was warm.

It was very good.

\--- 

Linhardt woke to panicked breathing. He blinked against the darkness of the room, finding the source of the noise in the dim moonlight.

“Sylvain?”

“... It’s nothing, just go back to sleep.” Came the struggling reply. Unconvinced, Linhardt switched on the bedside lamp. Squinting against the sudden brightness, it took a few blinks for his eyes to refocus. When they did, they settled on an unexpected sight.

Sylvain was a large man. At over six feet with broad shoulders and a sculpted body, he had a formidable stature, but in the hazy glow of the table lamp he looked… Small. He sat with his legs pulled towards his chest, face buried in his knees, scrunched into a ball. Erratic breaths and choked sobs shook his body. Linhardt reached out a cautious hand, gently placing it on Sylvain’s back.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say, but he scooted closer to the ball and rested his head lightly on Sylvain’s shoulder. And they sat. 

Just sat in the low light, unmoving, until Sylvain’s breathing slowed and his sobs reduced to sniffles. Finally he lifted his head, wiping his face on the sleeve of his shirt, and still, they said nothing. Sylvain silently wormed back under the covers, Linhardt echoing his actions. He stretched an arm to turn off the lamp, when Sylvain finally spoke.

“Could you… Leave that on?” He said in a weak voice, rough from crying.

“Mhm.” Linhardt left the lamp alone, resubmerging himself in the sheets. 

Instead of resting an arm around Linhardt as usual, Sylvain pulled the man towards him, burying his face in Linhardt’s chest. Linhardt rested a gentle hand on Sylvain’s head and fell asleep to slow breathing.

\--- 

The weeks passed, and neither of them spoke of what happened that night. Sylvain acted as though it had never happened, and Linhardt opted to do the same. One thing that remained, however, was that it felt as though some barrier had been broken between the two of them, and they slept closer, intertwined with each other. It hardly bothered Linhardt, rather, it was even warmer and more comforting, that he much preferred it this way.

Save for one morning, on the rare occasion that Linhardt woke before Sylvain. Sylvain was pressed up against Linhardt’s back, nose resting into his shoulder and one leg threaded between Linhardt’s own. His soft exhales tickled Linhardt a bit, but that was hardly the problem. 

“Sylvain.” Linhardt lightly elbowed the sleeping man.

“Hm?” Sylvain grunted.

“Something’s poking me, it’s uncomfortable.” Sylvain’s eyes shot open as he practically shoved Linhardt away and retreated to the far side of the bed.

“Shit! Sorry it’s… Uh… It’s been a while since. Y’know.” His hands scrambled to cover his front. “Yeah.”

Sylvain stood carefully, taking care to angle away from Linhardt’s large, unflinching eyes. He barely took a step when Linhardt, ever the enigma, opened his mouth to speak.

“I can do it for you.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly filler fluff, like the 3 foot tall bag of stuffing I have next to my bed for some reason. No beta this chapter, because it's 4am.
> 
> For general fire emblem-ing and linhardt drawing: [ @ikaripoid ](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid)  
> For setethposting and sylvhardt ramblings: [@lovchrom ](https://twitter.com/lovchrom)


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for explicit content. To skip, go to the scene break!

Sylvain stared at Linhardt, eyes wide in bewilderment as his brain tried to process the words that just came out of the man’s mouth.

“Huh?” Was all that Sylvain could eke out. He must have heard it wrong.  _ Dang, twenty-six years old and my hearing is already going. _

“I can do it for you” Linhardt repeated, pointing at Sylvain’s crotch as if there were any question as to what he was referring to.  _ That’s really what he said. Wait, what? _ Sylvain’s head swam as he struggled to make sense of the bizarre reality he was suddenly living. Surely, Linhardt had been a bit of a wild card since the very beginning, but this was a new kind of curveball. What did it  _ mean _ ? What was Linhardt thinking?  _ Why _ ?

Linhardt, apparently tired of patiently sitting there while Sylvain tried to piece things together, did as Linhardt does. Boldly and with no shits given, he crawled across the bed and pulled down the front of Sylvain’s sweatpants to let his morning wood spring free.

“W-wait-” Sylvain stuttered out. Linhardt looked up at him from crotch-height with beautiful, dewy green eyes. There was a hint of hesitation in his usual self-assurance as he paused.

“Should I stop?” 

“No that’s not-” Sylvain started, but was cut off by his own groan as Linhardt grasped his erection with a sure hand. “Oh Goddess,  _ fuck _ .” 

Taking that as all the confirmation he needed, Linhardt started moving a soft hand along it in slow pumps, as it grew harder with each pass. Sylvain hissed as a delicate tongue began running along his cock, tracing the veins up and down his length. Drops of precum dripped from the tip, making their way down the shaft where they were collected by Linhardt’s languid licks. 

The excruciating slowness was almost torture to Sylvain, as were the visuals. Supple, pale hands that hardly saw the light of day worked him with deftness and precision while tender pink lips parted to allow a flattened tongue to press on the underside of his cock. His impressive length rested across Linhardt’s pretty features as the bewitching little devil attended to the base of Sylvain’s dick, which painted a lewd streak across Linhardt’s forehead in precum and saliva. Emerald orbs held Sylvain captive through long eyelashes, fluttering with each hypnotic blink.

...And just as he did anything, straight-faced and without warning, Linhardt wrapped luscious, glossy lips around Sylvain and  _ sucked _ . Deeper and deeper he went with every bob of his head, and it made Sylvain see fucking  _ stars _ . He threaded tentative fingers through veridian locks, gentle touch suddenly turning into a forceful grip as Linhardt scraped lightly with his teeth. The tug made Linhardt whine pleasurably, the vibrations running up Sylvain’s shaft and up his hips, making the man rut and yank Linhardt’s head forward to meet immaculately manscaped red hairs. 

Linhardt gagged on the tip of Sylvain’s dick hitting the back of his throat and Sylvain, panicked, pulled himself out of the wet heat and let go of his hair. 

“Shit, I’m sorry  _ shit _ .” He apologized, wiping the corners of Linhardt’s mouth with a thumb and looking over him with concerned eyes.

“I’m fine, I just wasn’t expecting it.” Linhardt pushed the hand away, eyes flashing with obstinacy and impetuousness as he returned to his task, taking the entirety of Sylvain’s length in one fluid motion, effectively deepthroating him. The sensations of Linhardt’s throat swallowing the girth of Sylvain’s cock as the ridges of the roof of his mouth rubbed against the head wore Sylvain’s self-control to nothing. To Sylvain’s surprise (though everything the insomniatic incubus did lately seemed to surprise him), Linhardt lightly took Sylvain’s hands in his own and guided them to his head. Biting his bottom lip, Sylvain grasped Linhardt’s hair once again and fucked into his mouth, relishing in the lewd noises and whines coming from the younger man. The slap of balls against skin and the squelch of each thrust reverberated around Sylvain’s bedroom and went right back to his dick.

“Fuck, oh  _ fuck, _ ” Sylvain practically yelped as Linhardt took him in as far as he could go, nose meeting pelvis and throat milking his dick. “I’m gonna cum-ghCK!” 

With an incoherent yell, Sylvain climaxed and tried to pull out. Failing that, streaks of white painted Linhardt’s throat, tongue and face with every twitch of his dick. 

“ _ Saint Seiros _ ,” Sylvain swore, catching his breath. His eyes scanned up from the bottom, watching cum drip onto Linhardt’s dark hair and coming up to see a half-open jaw and opaque fluids pooling stark against a crimson tongue. Linhardt returned Sylvain’s gaze, locking him in with mesmerizing jade before shutting his mouth.

And swallowing.

And making a little  _ ick _ face, which snapped Sylvain out of his post-orgasm haze to frantically scoop up the sticky weirdo and rush into the bathroom, dropping him (gently) next to the shower and turning on the jets full-blast. After directing Linhardt to the mouthwash and plopping a fresh towel and a spare t-shirt on the counter for him, Sylvain slipped out to the hall where he collapsed into a pile on the floor.

What the hell just happened,  _ what the hell just happened, WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?  _ Sylvain’s mind ping ponged so hard he could almost feel the reverberations against his skull.  _ Holy shit it’s been a long time _ , he thought,  _ fuck that was good. Holy shit. _ Thinking about it made him a little hard again. Shit.  _ Think about something else. Anything else. That weird black sludge jar in the back of Felix’s fridge. Ingrid, that one time she tried to wear makeup. Dimitri’s sweatshirt that he probably hasn’t washed in like three years. Seteth- ah okay, that works. _ Sylvain let out a sigh of relief for his flaccid dick.

The door clicked open and the soft pad of feet made Sylvain direct his attention up at Linhardt, now clean with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his neck. Sylvain’s shirt was dangerously oversized on his wiry frame, the hem hanging around his thighs as Sylvain came to the sudden realization that he had forgotten to give him underwear. Sylvain flushed and tore his gaze away.

“So, you want breakfast?” He offered, hopping to his feet, still avoiding eye contact.

“That would be lovely.” Linhardt replied.

\--- 

Sylvain was in the midst of flipping eggs and burning toast when the doorbell rang.

“Hey, can you get that?” He asked over his shoulder. Linhardt hopped off the stool he was sitting on to go answer the door. There was a clatter of shoes being thrown off and the slam of a door, and about five seconds later Sylvain was greeted with a barrage of yelling.

“You  _ asshole _ , answer my texts! Guess what the  _ fucking boar _ did this time, that bigass idiot-” An ever-familiar scowl and mess of dark hair burst into the kitchen and made a beeline for Sylvain’s coffee pot.

“Good morning to you too, Felix.” Sylvain smiled at the intruder, which only made him glower harder. Linhardt meandered in behind Felix, reseating himself on the stool. 

“Who the fuck is that.” Felix pointed one hand at Linhardt, using the other to take a generous swig of coffee. 

“Oh, this is Linhardt.” Sylvain said, setting a plate of toast and eggs in front of the man in question, who yawned. “I mentioned him to you.”

“No you didn’t, dipshit.” Felix shifted to the side as Sylvain poured another two mugs of coffee, adding a heaping spoonful of sugar and a healthy dose of cream to one and two-percent milk to the other. 

“We’re friends. I could’ve sworn I mentioned him at least a couple times.” Placing the sweet coffee in front of Linhardt and grabbing the other plate of breakfast for himself, Sylvain sat on the other barstool. 

“Maybe you did. Whatever, it’s your fault. Be more interesting.” Felix spat. “And what’s with all this? I thought your kitchen was just for eating take out in. I’ve never seen you cook.”

“I do cook. Remember? I made pizza that one time.” Sylvain frowned. Beside him, Linhardt nibbled on his toast as he watched the two banter.

“Heating up Costco pizza doesn’t count, asswipe.” 

“The cheese wasn’t cooked, it totally counts.” 

“It doesn’t count when the stupid boar eats most of it off the top.” Felix grimaced. “But stop dodging my questions. Who the fuck is this and why the fuck are you making him breakfast?”

“My, you sure use an abundance of colorful language.” Linhardt commented, taking a sip of his sucrose-saturated beverage. Felix glared and Sylvain could feel the steam escaping from his childhood friend. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many expletives in one sentence before.” 

“Hey now, be nice.” Sylvain intervened before the agitated man could let loose his fury. “You too, Felix.” 

“Excuse me, but I believe I should get going.” Linhardt stood, immune to the daggers Felix was glaring at him. “Thank you for breakfast, I quite enjoyed it.” 

With that, he left to change his clothes and gather his things, leaving the other two to themselves. 

“Seriously, though.” Felix poured himself another cup of coffee. “Why is he here, in your home, in the morning, and why are you making breakfast for him.”

“It’s a long story.” Sylvain replied nonchalantly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Felix looked visibly repulsed at the insinuating tone, face curdling into a deep frown. 

“Whore.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my resident Felix expert Tnt for beta-ing this chapter too! 
> 
> For mostly Robin doodles: [@ikaripoid](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid)  
> For more hcs on linhardt giving head: [@lovchrom](https://twitter.com/lovchrom) (18+)


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for NSFW content.

Linhardt stifled a yawn and leaned his head on his left hand while his right stroked Sylvain’s cock. It wasn’t as if he particularly minded doing this, especially when he was rewarded with soft pillows and warm arms. He also didn’t particularly mind the taste of semen, either. It was an acquired taste, he supposed, and the past few months of swallowing Sylvain’s cum was probably long enough to acquire it. 

He knew that he didn’t owe Sylvain anything. Everything Sylvain did, he did of his own volition, be it letting the insomniac into his bed or ordering them both takeout. And yet, Linhardt found himself more and more slinking beneath the covers to suck him off or reaching an arm between them to rub one out. Though usually a thorough thinker, perhaps the scholar was discovering something of an impulsive streak in himself, drawn out by the security of Sylvain’s company.

He caressed the tip with his thumb, making Sylvain let out a breathy groan. It sparked something in Linhardt, whether it was the natural curiosity he carried in any situation ( _ clearly _ any) or something a bit  _ dirtier _ , he didn’t know nor pay much mind to, but what he did know was that it made him latch pink lips onto the head and  _ suck _ . 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Sylvain threw his head back into the pillows as the bitter, salty taste of precum spread across Linhardt’s tongue.  _ Not pleasant, but not the worst. _

Before long, Linhardt was wiping semen off of his face with a tissue, haphazardly balling it up and tossing it in the waste bin beside the night stand. He would hardly call himself a master, but by several months of practice he could say that he’d become quite skilled at wringing cum out of Sylvain with a minimal amount of effort. (The first time had been… A bit of a deviance. After all, efficiency comes with practice.) 

“Don’t you want to wash it off?” Sylvain questioned, disposing of the tissue he had made Linhardt spit his cum into. (That too, had been a one-time thing. After the first time, Sylvain had forbidden him from swallowing.) 

“Someone told me that semen has skincare properties to it.” Linhardt answered, nestling himself underneath a knitted blanket and making himself comfortable. “I supposed I would see for myself.”

“Huh, interesting. Kinda gross, but interesting.” Raising an eyebrow, Sylvain considered it, before ultimately dismissing the idea entirely in favor of curling around the blanketed bundle. “G’night.”

“Night.” Linhardt drowsily mumbled against Sylvain’s chest, slowly drifting to sleep in his warm embrace.

\---

The doorbell trilled relentlessly through the tiny apartment, a cacophony of frantic dings overlapping, not giving any space for one to finish uninterrupted. Groggy, Linhardt trudged across the depressingly short distance between his bed and the front door to unwillingly unbolt the door for whatever that was so urgent to disrupt him at 6 A.M. The door had hardly been opened, before he found himself knocked off his feet in a blur of electric-blue hair and  _ way _ too much energy.

“LIN! I MISSED YA, BUDDY!”

“Caspar?” Linhardt rubbed his head where it had smacked against the floor in the midst of the whirling tornado that was his childhood friend. “What are you doing here?”

“Got a few days off work!” Caspar heaved himself up, hefting his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Decided to come see my best buddy!”

He extended a hand to the  _ literally _ floored man, helping him regain his standing, a good five centimeters taller than the short king Cas. 

“Tsk. Thought I’d be taller than you by now!” Caspar let out a thunderous laugh for someone his size, clapping the frail-bodied scholar on the back with a solid, muscled arm.

“I’ve seen your father, and we all know that simply isn’t going to happen.” Linhardt quipped back, wincing at the sure-to-bruise contact spot. “Now if you’ll excuse me, you’ve interrupted my sleep.”

“Aw, but it’s morning already!” Rolling his eyes at the shorter man’s whining, Linhardt began his trudge back to bed. 

“You can put your bag wherever, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Aye-aye!” With a casual salute, Caspar tossed his duffel into a random corner not overrun with dog eared books and flopped onto Linhardt’s bed alongside its owner. “Wanna cuddle for old time’s sake?”

“Do whatever,” Linhardt yawned. “The warmth would be nice.”

Except it was  _ not _ nice. 

Or at least not as nice as he’d remembered. 

There was something  _ different _ from before. Something that made the back of his brain itchy with nothing to scratch it. Was it the constant whistle of Caspar’s nose? The sweatiness of his feet? The overwhelming heat of a thousand suns bombarding Linhardt and making him  _ too _ warm? Caspar’s ability to disrupt the entire neighborhood even while he was sleeping, with his chainsaw snoring?

Whatever it was, it was keeping Linhardt awake. It made him a little jealous of Caspar, who had fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow, despite his initial protests to letting Linhardt go back to bed. It was unfair how easy it was for this little monkey man to sleep. He pinched Caspar’s whistling nose. 

“BWAH!” The man awoke with a start, breathing deeply to regain his oxygen. “Lin, what?”

“I changed my mind. I’m awake.” Sliding his legs out of bed first, Linhardt stood up, pulling his hair into a bun and tying it with his white ribbon. 

“Hell yeah! Let’s do shit!” 

\--- 

After the third time that Linhardt had almost fallen out of his stool from a micro-nap, Byleth pulled him into her office. Staring him down in the chair opposite, she felt up his face, squishing and prodding with freezing cold hands. Linhardt shivered. 

“I’m fine, Professor.” He murmured as she continued her survey. “Just a bit tired.” 

Byleth furrowed her eyebrows in worry, and cocked her head to the side in question.

“Please don’t worry yourself.” He reassured, contradicting himself with a jaw-cracking yawn. 

“Sleep more.” She ordered, point-blank. Dr. Eisner was never one to mince words, something Linhardt had always found rather compelling about her. Though in this particular case, it seemed a bit harsh to his insomnia-weakened feelings. 

He nodded, and with a skeptical look Byleth backed off, removing her hands and lounging back in her meshy ergonomic chair.

“Professor… Might I solicit some advice?” He asked. She nodded.

“Have you ever lost something, and tried to replace it with a substitute, but then found the original again and it felt…” Linhardt gestured vaguely, unsure of what exactly he was trying to put into words. “...Different? Such that you found that maybe you liked the substitute a lot more than you had thought?” 

Byleth nodded slowly, leaning forward to rest her chin on folded hands. Piercing eyes met Linhardt’s, and held his gaze as the cogs turned. 

Finally, she spoke.

“Sometimes, substitutes are not meant to be substitutes. You may find that they fulfill your original intention, yes, but they may also find ways to enhance your life in ways you hadn’t considered before.” She paused to wet her lips. “A substitute holds its own value, such that you may not want to regard it as a replacement, but as its own unique entity with its own values. It’s unfair to both if you regard them as the same.” 

A little shell-shocked at the sheer volume of speech that had come out of her, it took a moment for Linhardt to think about the meaning behind those words. Perhaps it had been unfair of him to weigh Sylvain’s value against Caspar’s in his life. After all, the way he valued them was different. Quite clearly so.

And it finally dawned on him. He  _ valued _ Sylvain. Not just as a heat source, or as a companion or friend. Not in the way that he valued Caspar, not at all. It all made sense, and the pieces clicked into place.

“Thank you, Professor.” Linhardt stood up, eyes shining with resolve despite the dark circles beneath them. Byleth nodded and waved a hand, and the man let himself out.

The professor leaned back in her chair, propping her feet up against the desk, smug in her own endless wisdom and life experience. She was glad her disciple sought her advice on switching shampoos. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a little while! I've recently started grad school so updates may be a while in between, but I fully intend to finish this!  
> Thanks for all the wonderful comments so far, they really keep me going!! 😭💕💕
> 
> Feel free to chat with me :)  
> Twitter: @ikaripoid  
> NSFW twitter: @lovchrom


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the Faerghus Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To get the full effect of Dimitri's suffering, I've made a [playlist for your un-enjoyment](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4DnQeLPnTDw58V7rq3h479?si=TMDni2_BQKGft8kS9I6FjA).

“Sylvain, would you mind terribly if you could drive me there?” Dimitri asked, in his weirdly-polite and antiquated Dimitri way.

“Drive you in  _ what _ ?” Sylvain grinned, relishing what was to come. 

“Your car… Please.” There was an edge of desperation to the younger man’s voice. There were many downsides to not being able to drive, and having to ask your friends for rides was one of them. For normal people with normal friends, it probably wasn’t such a hurdle, but Dimitri was not a normal person and neither were his friends.

The last time he had gotten into a car with Felix at the wheel had been his last. The small angry man had enough road rage for someone twice his size, and he drove at least twice the speed limit, too (or at least that’s what it felt like in the passenger seat of that hell ride). There was also the matter that Felix had a tendency to leave a trail of chaos in his wake, in the form of broken side-mirrors and dented mailboxes. And never,  _ ever _ ask Felix to parallel park.

Ingrid was a perfectly lovely driver. She obeyed the Driver’s Handbook like a perfect student, never forgot to signal, and drove at reasonable law-abiding speeds. The issue, however, was her car. The thing was probably as old as she was (possibly older), and only started if you hit the engine a certain way with a large metal spoon. It also tended to smoke under the hood periodically (“no worries, it does it all the time” surprisingly did not quiet Dimitri’s worries) and held a trove of fast food wrappers in the back seat. And the dashboard. And the passenger seat.

This left Dimitri to turn to his last childhood friend. Sylvain was a competent driver without so much as a parking ticket on his record, and his car was well-maintained and meticulously clean. The only problem was this pre-ride ritual that made Dimitri reconsider asking for a ride in one of the two doom-buggies that spelled almost a guaranteed demise.

“What car could you possibly be talking about?” Dimitri could almost hear the shit-eating grin through the phone. “If only there was a name, then I would know what car to give you a ride in.”

“Sylvain…” Dimitri grit his teeth.

“Come on, say it.”

“Sylvain, can you please give me a ride in…” He lowered his voice to a barely-audible squeak. “The… P-p… Pussy...smasher…”

“Didn’t hear you buddy, you’re gonna have to say it again,” said Sylvain, who heard Dimitri perfectly well.

“The Pussysmasher. Please drive me. In it.” Dimitri wheezed, feeling a part of his soul leave his body.

“Alright, be there in a few.” 

Why didn’t he drive, again?

\--- 

Following their monthly ritual of eating Taco Bell in the parking lot while watching Felix fight someone behind the dumpsters, Sylvain and his three childhood friends found themselves back at his apartment for a drink. That is, he and Ingrid did, and Dimitri busied himself with a can of Sprite while Felix sipped at tepid water. More than a couple drinks in, Sylvain was well on his way to being absolutely  _ smashed _ .

“The stupid whore has a stupid boyfriend and it’s fucking gross,” said Felix, completely sober and simply just a bitch.

“We’re not dating. At all.” Sylvain furrowed his eyebrows, taking another shot of vodka and making a face as it went down. “Nope. Just FWB.”

Dimitri, eyebrows furrowed, quietly murmured, “ _ F… W… B?” _

Very drunk, Sylvain began to ramble.

“We’re just FWB… Like we just sleep ‘n shit?” He paused to stare back at Felix with a sleazy grin, who was making a face not unlike vinegar in milk. “Sometimes he sucks me off and it’s  _ so good _ … I dunno where he learned it but when he deepthroats me it’s just…  _ Awesome. _ ”

All three of his friends grimaced in various degrees of disgust.

“And sometimes we eat breakfast together and sometimes dinner and also sometimes we watch TV together?” He continued his monologue that nobody cared to hear, “and most of the time we just sleep in the same bed and cuddle and not fuck and we are  _ absolutely not dating _ .”

Ingrid said nothing, staring at her empty glass. She hadn’t noticed she had been dating her girlfriend for the first six months, who was she to say anything? Dimitri, on the other hand, looked like he had been lost at “FWB”, and to his credit he was.

“Nasty whore.” Felix, the only person who could say anything at a time like this, was also the last person who should say anything at a time like this. That didn’t stop him. “Drunken idiot.”

“Aw, you know you love me,” Sylvain looped an arm around Felix, who reflexively bit it. “ _ Ow, fuck!” _

At some point in the night after drunkenly rambling about Linhardt’s blowjobs a bit longer, Sylvain fell asleep, to the relief of the rest. However, he had fallen asleep clinging to Felix, to the dismay of the cranky sourpuss. Nonetheless, he let Sylvain continue despite every vein in his forehead protesting otherwise. When he was asleep, Sylvain was probably about 80% more tolerable, mostly by the metric of how much less he talked. This didn’t mean he didn’t talk at all, unfortunately.

“ _ Linhardt _ ,” he slurred, “Yr warmer than usual…”

Felix kicked him off, letting his body hit the rug with a dull  _ thud _ . 

“It sounds like he  _ is _ dating this Linhardt.” Ingrid took a hefty swig of her beer, still going strong with the tolerance of a sailor. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“Gross.” Felix sneered, prodding the sleeping man with a toe.

“You were a bit like this too, with Dorothea.” Dimitri chuckled a bit.

“I wasn’t this bad.” She protested, flushing a bit pink in the ears.

“You were worse. Not as fucking gross, but worse.” A smirk graced Felix’s lips for a second. “Dense as shit, like a true lesbian.”

“Oh yeah, gayboy? You wanna fight?” 

“Hell yeah, bring it on-”

“STOP!” Dimitri raised his voice, thunderous and unexpected. The two froze. From the ground, Sylvain stirred, but didn’t wake. 

“Now will someone please tell me what this FWB is?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting for Sylvhardt Week Day 6: Modern AU!
> 
> More Sylvhardt Week:   
> [Day 1: Confession](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid/status/1325135936007516162?s=20)  
> [Day 2: Academy Time](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid/status/1325498320786219013?s=20)  
> [Day 3: Soulmate AU](https://t.co/5ed8hrno4w?amp=1)  
> [Day 5: Fairytales](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid/status/1326322232168046596?s=20)
> 
> [Art/Fire Emblem Twitter: @ikaripoid](https://twitter.com/ikaripoid)   
>  [NSFW Twitter (18+): @lovchrom](https://twitter.com/lovchrom)


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